Late night, early morning

Lights firing inside my head,


perhaps, afraid one day they will go out.


I follow her constant breathing, with envy at each effortless sigh,


hoping soon my mind will wander or be distracted by morpheus touch.


I turn, torturing myself,


shifting weight.


Processing, clearing, exploring yesterday and the day ahead.


I hope for rest, but a pretension lives on,


where this malady is some inspirational disease.


I fear it is a curse.

 

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About Roy Smith

Roy Smith lives in the Medway Towns, where he works with young people and spends a lot of time writing nonsense and enjoying himself. Most of his writing happens at night and other inconvenient moments, when he is regularly interrupted by his dog and the desire to play old video games.

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